


Nawiedzony

by carefulwiththatwolfwhistle (ashinan)



Series: Granica Wytrzymałości [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Kidnapping, Spoilers, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-21 22:22:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashinan/pseuds/carefulwiththatwolfwhistle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wakes to the taste of copper in his mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nawiedzony

**Author's Note:**

> Please make sure you read the warnings! Also, MAJOR spoilers for the latest episode! There is a possibility of more being written. Thank youuu!

John wakes to the taste of copper in his mouth. The floor bleeds concrete grey under his feet and the walls swim with grim off-white streaks that he can’t focus on. He blinks his eyes wide, trying to make everything stop blurring together into a mass, but it’s impossible. His body curls in on itself and that’s when the pain pushes itself to the forefront.

He gasps, wet, chest constricting around the sharp piercing agony on his left side. His arms are numb, fingers tingling with blood loss above his head. His feet barely scrape the ground, one shoe gone. He can’t look down, his head held up by a thin steel wire wrapped uncomfortably around his neck. He breathes through his nose, willing down panic and fear and the need to thrash.

Assess the situation.

Unknown building, at least from this vantage point. A large floor to ceiling window to his right, the sky outside cloudy and dark; lights turn the air grey with more unknown buildings. A stairwell in front of him, leading up into darkness. An oak table with papers spread haphazardly all around. A couch, well-worn and ratty off to his left. Silence. Utter silence.

Swallowing, he winces when the steel wire presses into his neck. He can’t get anything more than short gasps of breath. He doesn’t know if his weapons have been found and taken; he doesn’t know if he even still has his badge –

Memory slaps him in the face: a woman, a woman he knows, that he remembers, teaching his son

_Stiles_

no, no, holding that girl Lydia hostage, blade to her throat, blade in his chest, gun gone and badge crushed, Stiles beating against the opposite door, Scott, Scott a creature, a thing of myth

_Mom would’ve believed me_

the woman rushing him and kissing him, whispering titles in his ear like a prayer, smiling cruel at Stiles

_Dad!_

before changing into that monstrosity, that _thing_ , a being of nightmares and she wants Stiles, she _needs Stiles_ , he has to get out of here and get to his son, to save Stiles, to tell him he believes him and loves him and that he’s _sorry_.

“You’re awake.”

He jerks, bites off the moan of pain that shoots through his chest, up his arms and around his fingers. The woman – _Ms Blake_ – steps forward, her fingers toying with a cruel looking blade. She walks confidently, her face easy with a smile. It’s her eyes that burn into him, though, that sear him from the inside. The contempt there makes his breath catch.

“I wouldn’t have figured it out,” she says, tapping the flat of the blade against her palm, “if you hadn’t come running in and that fool boy of yours hadn’t followed. I knew there was something off about Stiles Stilinski, something I needed that he could provide, but I couldn’t figure out _what_.”

She moves toward him, sinuous and deadly, lips pulled up in a delirious smile. “He’s all of them. That’s why I couldn’t place him. That’s why I hesitated in taking his life so many times. He’s the last one I need. The Guardian. All four thrown into one being. The ultimate sacrifice.” She licks her lips, tucking the blade up against his throat. “And I won’t even have to find him, he’ll come to me. You’re the bait, Sheriff, and your son will be my prize.”

“What are you?” John finally manages, breath sharp and panicked. Stiles will come. He knows his son and he knows his instincts. He’ll come. Just like he ran to his mother’s comatose side every day. Just like he runs to Scott’s side whenever he calls. Always running forward, trying to heal and help, to protect and learn. His son will come and Jennifer will have her sacrifice.

The blade bites into his neck and he wonders what she would do if he botched her plan, leaned too far forward and allowed the knife to cut in deep. Jennifer’s eyes narrow and she removes the blade, cocking her head in surprise.

“My, the Stilinski men don’t fail to surprise. Sacrificing yourself, in hopes that it will save your son?” She taps his nose with a finger, grinning. “I like it. But that won’t get you anything. Sacrifice gives you unimaginable powe but I’ve nearly completed my ritual. You die? I bring you back. As to what I am? Well, you didn’t believe your son, so why would you believe me?”

The barb hits deep and he grits his teeth. He can’t focus on that right now. Jennifer goes to turn away before stalling, her eyes catching on his chest. She draws her fingers down his throat, over his collarbone, and flattens her palm against the jagged cut in his skin. Leaning up, she presses her mouth against his. “I almost forgot.”

She digs her fingers in, nails biting into flesh, shoving the wound open, and he _screams._ Pain lights up every cell in his body, and his arms strain useless above his head while thin metal wire cuts into his neck. She bites at his lip, keeps him in place as she twists her hand. He can’t breathe, can’t even see through the blurred tears in his eyes. He doesn’t know how long they stay like that, her mouth pressed cruelly against his, her fingers in his chest, the howls bouncing off the high ceiling and echoing down the halls. Finally, she seems to sigh in pleasure and pull back. The pain leaves with her.

Gasping, John hangs in his bonds, choking in air. Jennifer hums and lifts his head with the blade, eyes bright and cheeks blushed with colour. “Oh, that was a _rush_. I wonder…”

The blade digs into the soft underside of his chin and he manages to calm his heart enough to lift his head away. She smiles crookedly at him, before driving the blade sharp into his side. Air punches out of him on a silent yell, and she twists the blade idly, as though waiting for his scream. He grits his teeth and keeps it on the back of his tongue, waiting, knowing what she’s trying to do.

“Don’t disappoint me, Sheriff. Let me hear that pretty scream. It’s not as melodious as a banshee, but I’m sure it will get your son here faster.” She beams. His eyes widen and she yanks the blade free, before replacing it with her hand. “Let’s see if we can’t cut that time down to just a few hours, hm?”

He sends up a silent plea that his son won’t come, that Derek or Scott or any of the other number of creatures that seem to surround Stiles will keep him safe. Jennifer digs in her fingers and he’s gone, his mind whiting out from the pain, his throat raw from the scream he tried so desperately to hold in. He can’t hear Jennifer, can’t feel anything aside from the burning in his side, the way it cascades up and up, against his heart and into his head, _squeezing_ , until he’s sure he’s going to burst. The pain ebbs away, slow instead of quick, and he hangs, unable to do anything but stare blankly at the floor in front of him.

“I think they’re getting closer,” Jennifer says, but she’s muffled over the ringing in his ears, and it _hurts_ , the slide of her knife over the line of stomach and the straining numbness of his arms; it _burns_ , the way her fingers push magic into him, forcing his body to repair; it’s too much and he can’t scream anymore, his throat filling with copper and his mouth with jagged splashes of blood. John coughs, head wrenched up by that damnable wire, and Jennifer tsks at him.

“One last show, Sheriff. They’re almost here. They’ve figured it out. One last beautiful _howl_ and then I can send you and your son off to your wife. Wouldn’t that be nice?” She speaks sense and he hates her for it, a vicious loathing that builds in his stomach like battery acid and forces its way up against his tongue, holding back the next scream, muffling the groans. Jennifer grabs his chin, yanks his head up as she presses the blade into the skin beneath his eye. “Scream for me or I won’t heal you this time.”

He smiles a bloody smile, and she sinks the blade into his skin and it's _agony,_ fuck, it’s a completely different type of pain, blooming up and over his need to stay silent. She removes the blade slowly and he pants out a curse, broken and in a tongue he hasn’t used since Kereyi died. He curses her with every fiber of his being, calling for retribution, and spitting out messy phrases. Jennifer looks taken aback, suddenly uncertain, the bloodied blade crossing over her heart.

“You – those words, how do you know them?”

He doesn’t answer, instead starts in on another set, and she reaches for his face, slams her hand over his mouth and her magic into his eye. It sears and burns but he refuses to stop, finds the strength to keep going in the memory of Kereyi poking fun at her grandmother’s outlandish curses, at the way her grandfather would sigh and tell stories of how curses in their native tongue used to bind people to their will.

He bites at Jennifer’s hand, hisses the words out into the air where they churn and thunder, remembering how Kereyi painstakingly taught their son every line because she thought it hilarious when Stiles would curse the plants in her garden.  

Jennifer drops the knife, clapping both hands to her ears in shocked outrage, and John can feel something bloom in his chest. He gets out the last word, gasps it on a pained breath, and the silence that pervades echoes with promise. Jennifer bares her teeth, magic swirling around her face and he can see glimpses of her true form, twisted and pulsing blue. She drags a hand down her face, nails marring her cheek with red pinpricks, before turning on her heel and disappearing into the shadows.

No matter how much he strains to hear, there’s nothing in the air anymore. The knife sits just scant inches from his toes, and he honestly has no idea what he’d do with it if he was able to pick it up. He hangs, fingers and arms numb, shoulders screaming, eye pulsing with false pain. He swallows against the copper bite in his throat. He hangs, and Jennifer doesn’t return.

Time passes, he knows it does, but the floor can’t tell him the hour and the walls can’t part the clouds. He hangs and he whispers the words Kereyi taught him, the words she painted into his skin with her lips, traced onto him with her fingers. They’re curses of another kind, false hopes that have him fighting with himself not to chase the memory. He hangs and he waits, unsure if Jennifer will be returning.

There’s a shuffle in the darkness and John jerks to attention. His throat pushes against the metal around his neck and he whispers out a breath. Jennifer peers at him through the slatted light, eyes glaring fierce and bright. She doesn’t step closer, keeping her distance and herself hidden in the shadows. John watches her watch him. They don’t move. Jennifer barely even blinks.

“He won’t come,” he says. Jennifer tilts her head and seems to listen, before fixing him with her gaze again.

“You underestimate your son, Sheriff, as well as those he guards. He will come. And I’ll be here.” She walks over to table, pushing the papers around. She doesn’t approach him, doesn’t pick up the knife staining the wood by John’s feet. She turns and watches him and he watches her.

They stay, and wait, and John prays that Stiles won’t come. He knows it’s a lost hope. 

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on [my tumblr](http://carefulwiththatwolfwhistle.tumblr.com/post/56907215784/)!


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